“In whose service may you be now?” quoth the intrigued Gregorio, so soon as greetings had passed between them.
Espinosa shook off his momentary embarrassment, and took the hand of his sometime comrade. “Times are changed, friend Gregorio. I am not in anybody’s service, rather do I require servants myself.”
“Why, what is your present situation?”
Loftily Espinosa put him off. “No matter for that,” he answered, with a dignity that forbade further questions. He gathered his cloak about him to proceed upon his way. “If there is anything you wish for I shall be happy, for old times’ sake, to oblige you.”
But Gregorio was by no means disposed to part from him. We do not readily part from an old friend whom we rediscover in an unsuspected state of affluence. Espinosa must home with Gregorio. Gregorio’s wife would be charmed to renew his acquaintance, and to hear from his own lips of his improved and prosperous state. Gregorio would take no refusal, and in the end Espinosa, yielding to his insistence, went with him to the sordid quarter where Gregorio had his dwelling.
About an unclean table of pine, in a squalid room, sat the three—Espinosa, Gregorio, and Gregorio’s wife; but the latter displayed none of the signs of satisfaction at Espinosa’s prosperity which Gregorio had promised. Perhaps Espinosa observed her evil envy, and it may have been to nourish it—which is the surest way to punish envy—that he made Gregorio a magnificent offer of employment.
“Enter my service,” said he, “and I will pay you fifty ducats down and four ducats a month.”
Obviously they were incredulous of his affluence. To convince them he displayed a gold watch—most rare possession—set with diamonds, a ring of price, and other costly jewels. The couple stared now with dazzled eyes.
“But didn’t you tell me when we were in Madrid together that you had been a pastry-cook at Ocana?” burst from Gregorio.
Espinosa smiled. “How many kings and princes have been compelled to conceal themselves under disguises?” he asked oracularly. And seeing them stricken, he must play upon them further. Nothing, it seems, was sacred to him—not even the portrait of that lovely, desolate royal lady in her convent at Madrigal. Forth he plucked it, and thrust it to them across the stains of wine and oil that befouled their table.